She is woken by a knock on the front door of her home (their lovely home, built on blood and adorned with the spoils bought by sin). The flash of red and white lights reflects off the wooden slats of the blinds, more pronounced in early morning dimness.

Fear and unease twist like vipers in her stomach, but, somehow, she feels she has been waiting for this moment all her married life. It is almost as if a great burden has been lifted from her shoulders after years of struggling against its weight. "Is this it?" Her lips hardly move. She is ashamed that she is relieved, but finally: no more waiting.

Her daughter is in the hall – looking so much younger than her years in pajamas and loose hair – demanding responses to questions Carmela can not answer, persisting after a sharp rebuke. In this instant, she detests her, surrendering to the cocktail of fear and anger that threatened to overtake her. It never had, even during the girl's prickly adolescence and the high tension that had run through their blood for several years, but now she acquiesces to the thought that she halfway hates her child.

This is it.

No more waiting.